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Class 



Book^ 



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COPYRrCHT DEPOSm 



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BATTLE AND OTHER POEMS 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW VORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

lONDON • BOMBAY ■ CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA. Ltd. 

TORONTO 



BATTLE 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 

AUTHOB OF "daily BREAD," " FIRES," "BORDERLANDS 
AND THOROUGHFARES," ETC. 



^m fork 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1916 

AU rights reserved 






COPYBIGHT, 1915 AND 1916 

By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 



'Z^ 



/: 

APR 3 1916 



^CI,A428362 



TO MY WIFE 



CONTENTS 

BATTLE 

PAGE 

Before Action 9 

I Breakfast 10 

The Bayonet 11 

The Question 12 

The Return .13 

Salvage .14 

■^Deaf 15 

Mad 16 

Raining 17 

Sport 18 

The Fear 19 

In the Ambulance 20 

Hill-born 21 

The Father 22 

The Reek 23 

Nightmare 24 

Comrades 25 

The Lark 26 

The Vow 27 

Mangel-Wurzels 28 

His Father 29 

Hit 30 

Back 31 

His Mate 32 

The Dancers 33 

The Joke 34 

Cherries 35 

The Housewife 36 

Victory 37 

The Messages 38 

The Quiet 39 

[5] 



CONTENTS 



FRIENDS 

PAGE 

To THE Memory of Rupert Brooke ... 43 

Rupert Brooke 44 

William Denis Browne 49 

Tenants 50 

Sea-Change 51 

Gold 52 

The Old Bed 53 

Trees 54 

Oblivion 55 

Colour 56 

Night 57 

The Orphans 58 

? 60 

The Pessimist 62 

The Sweet-Tooth 63 

Girl's Song 64 

The Ice-Cart 65 

To E. M. ..... 68 

Marriage . 70 

Roses 71 

For G 72 

Home 73 



STONEFOLDS 

"The Ragged Heather-Ridge is Black" . . 80 

Stonefolds 81 

The Bridal 102 

The Scar 126 

Winter Dawn 139 

The Ferry 157 

On the Threshold 173 

[6] 



BATTLE 



BEFORE ACTION 

I sit beside the brazier's glow. 
And, drowsing in the heat, 
I dream of daffodils that blow 
And lambs that frisk and bleat — 

Black lambs that frolic in the snow 
Among the daffodils. 
In a far orchard that I know 
Beneath the Malvern hills. 

Next year the daffodils will blow, 
And lambs will frisk and bleat; 
But I'll not feel the brazier's glow. 
Nor any cold or heat. 



191 



BATTLE 



BREAKFAST 

We eat our breakfast lying on our backs, 
Because the shells were screeching overhead. 
I bet a rasher to a loaf of bread 
That Hull United would beat Halifax 
When Jimmy Stainthorpe played full-back 

instead 
Of Billy Bradford. Ginger raised his head 
And cursed, and took the bet; and dropt 

back dead. 
We eat our breakfast lying on our backs. 
Because the shells were screeching overhead. 



10] 



THE BAYONET 



THE BAYONET 

This bloody steel 
Has killed a man. 
I heard him squeal 
As on I ran. 

He watched me come 
With wagging head. 
I pressed it home, 
And he was dead. 

Though clean and clear 
I've wiped the steel, 
I still can hear 
That dying squeal. 



11] 



BATTLE 



THE QUESTION 

I wonder if the old cow died or not. 

Gey bad she was the night I left, and sick. 

Dick reckoned she would mend. He knows a 

lot— 
At least he fancies so himself, does Dick. 

Dick knows a lot. But maybe I did wrong 
To leave the cow to him, and come away. 
Over and over like a silly song 
These words keep bumming in my head all 
day. 

And all I think of, as I face the foe 
And take my lucky chance of being shot, 
Is this — that if I'm hit, I'll never know 

Till Doomsday if the old cow died or not^ 

\V2] 



THE RETURN 



THE RETURN 

He went, and he was gay to go; 
And I smiled on him as he went. 
My son — 'twas well he couldn't know 
My darkest dread, nor what it meant — 

Just what it meant to smile and smile 
And let my son go cheerily — 
My son . . . and wondering all the while 
What stranger would come back to me. 



[131 



BATTLE 



SALVAGE 

So suddenly her life 

Had crashed about that grey old country 

wife, 
Naked she stood, and gazed 
Bewildered, while her home about her blazed, 
New-widowed, and bereft 
Of her five sons, she clung to what was left, 
Still hugging all she'd got — 
A toy gun and a copper coffee-pot. 



[141 



DEAF 



DEAF 

This day last year I heard the curlew calling 
By Hallypike 

And the clear tinkle of hill-waters falling 
Down slack and syke. 

But now I cannot hear the shrapnel's scream- 
ing. 
The screech of shells: 
And if again I see the blue lough gleaming 
Among the fells 

Unheard of me will be the curlew's calling 
By Hallypike 

And the clear tinkle of hill-waters falling 
Down slack and syke. 

[151 



BATTLE 



MAD 

Neck-deep in mud. 
He mowed and raved — 
He who had braved 
The field of blood— 

And as a lad 
Just out of school 
Yelled: "April fool!'* 
And laughed like mad. 



[16] 



RAINING 



RAINING 

The night I left my father said: 
"You'll go and do some stupid thing. 
You've no more sense in that fat head 
Than Silly Billy Witterling. 

"Not sense to come in when it rains — 
Not sense enough for that, you've got. 
You'll get a bullet through your brains. 
Before you know, as like as not." 

And now I'm lying in the trench 
And shells and bullets through the night 
Are raining in a steady drench, 
I'm thinking the old man was right. 



[171 



BATTLE 



SPORT 

And such a morning for cubbing — 
The dew so thick on the grass! 
Two hares are lolloping just out of range 
Scattering the dew as they pass. 

A covey of partridge whirrs overhead 
Scatheless, and gets clean away; 
For it's other and crueller, craftier game 
We're out for and after to-day ! 



[181 



THE FEAR 



THE FEAR 

I do not fear to die 
'Neath the open sky, 
To meet death in the fight 
Face to face, upright. 

But when at last we creep 
In a hole to sleep, 
I tremble, cold with dread. 
Lest I wake up dead. 



[191 



BATTLE 



IN THE AMBULANCE 

"Two rows of cabbages, 
Two of curly-greens, 
Two rows of early peas. 
Two of kidney-beans." 

That's what he is muttering. 
Making such a song, 
Keeping other chaps awake. 
The whole night long. 

Both his legs are shot away. 
And his head is light; 
So he keeps on muttering 
All the blessed night. 

[20] 



HILL-BORN 



"Two rows of cabbages, 
Two of curly-greens, 
Two rows of early peas, 
Two of kidney -beans." 



HILL-BORN 

I sometimes wonder if it's really true 

I ever knew 

Another life 

Than this unending strife 

With unseen enemies in lowland mud. 

And wonder if my blood 

Thrilled ever to the tune 

Of clean winds blowing through an April noon 

Mile after sunny mile 

On the green ridges of the Windy Gile. 

[211 



BATTLE 



THE FATHER 

That was his sort. 
It didn't matter 
What we were at 
But he must chatter 
Of this and that 
His little son 
Had said and done: 
Till, as he told 
The fiftieth time 
Without a change 
How three-year-old 
Prattled a rhyme. 
They got the range 
And cut him short. 

[22] 



THE REEK 



THE REEK 

To-night they're sitting by the peat 
Talking of me, I know — 
Grandfather in the ingle-seat, 
Mother and Meg and Joe. 

I feel a sudden puff of heat 
That sets my ears aglow, 
And smell the reek of burning peat 
Across the Belgian snow. 



[23] 



BATTLE 



NIGHTMARE 

They gave him a shiUing, 
They gave him a gun, 
And so he's gone killing 
The Germans, my son. 

I dream of that shilling — 
I dream of that gun — 
And it's they that are killing 
The boy who's my son. 



[24] 



COMRADES 



COMRADES 

As I was marching in Flanders 
A ghost kept step with me — 
Kept step with me and chuckled 
And muttered ceaselessly: 

"Once I too marched in Flanders, 
The very spit of you, 
And just a hundred years since, 
To fall at Waterloo. 

"They buried me in Flanders 
Upon the field of blood, 
And long I've lain forgotten 
Deep in the Flemish mud. 



[25] 



BATTLE 

"But now you march in Flanders, 
The very spit of me; 
To the ending of the day's march 
I'll bear you company." 



THE LARK 

A lull in the racket and brattle, 

And a lark soars into the light — 

And its song seems the voice of the light 

Quelling the voices of night 

And the shattering fury of battle. 

But again the fury of battle 
Breaks out, and he drops from the height- 
Dead as a stone from the height — 
Drops dead, and the voice of the light 

Is drowned in the shattering brattle. 

[261 



THE VOW 



THE VOW 

Does he ever remember, 
The lad that I knew. 
That night in September 
He vowed to be true — 

Does he hear my heart crying 
And fighting for breath 
In the land where he's lying 
As quiet as death? 



[27] 



BATTLE 



MANGEL-WURZELS 

Last year I was hoeing, 

Hoeing mangel-wurzels, 

Hoeing mangel-wurzels all day in the sun, 

Hoeing for the squire 

Down in Gloucestershire 

Willy-nilly till the sweaty job was done. 

Now I'm in the 'wurzels. 

In the mangel-wurzels, 

All day in the 'wurzels 'neath the Belgian 

sun. 
But among this little lot 
It's a different job I've got — 
For you don't hoe mangel-wurzels with a 

gun. 

[28] 



HIS FATHER 



HIS FATHER 

I quite forgot to put the spigot in. 
It's just come over me. . . . And it is queer 
To think he'll not care if we lose or win 
And yet be jumping-mad about that beer. 

I left it running full. He must have said 
A thing or two. I'd give my stripes to hear 
What he will say if I'm reported dead 
Before he gets me told about that beer! 



[29] 



BATTLE 



HIT 

Out of the sparkling sea 

I drew my tingling body clear, and lay 

On a low ledge the livelong summer day. 

Basking, and watching lazily 

White sails in Falmouth Bay. 

My body seemed to burn 

Salt in the sun that drenched it through and 

through 
Till every particle glowed clean and new 
And slowly seemed to turn 
To lucent amber in a world of blue. . . . 



[30] 



BACK 

I felt a sudden wrench — 

A trickle of warm blood — 

And found that I was sprawling in the mud 

Among the dead men in the trench. 

BACK 

They ask me where I've been. 
And what I've done and seen. 
But what can I reply 
Who know it wasn't I, 
But someone just like me, 
Who went across the sea 
And with my head and hands 
Killed men in foreign lands. . . . 
Though I must bear the blame 
Because he bore my name. 

[311 



BATTLE 



HIS MATE 

"Hi-diddle-diddle 

The cat and the fiddle*' . . . 

I raised my head, 

And saw him seated on a heap of dead. 

Yelling the nursery-tune. 

Grimacing at the moon. . . . 

"And the cow jumped over the moon. 
The little dog laughed to see such sport 
And the dish ran away with the spoon." 

And, as he stopt to snigger, 
I struggled to my knees and pulled the 
trigger. 

[32] 



THE DANCERS 



THE DANCERS 

All day beneath the hurtling shells 
Before my burning eyes 
Hover the dainty demoiselles — 
The peacock dragon-flies. 

Unceasingly they dart and glance 
Above the stagnant stream — 
And I am fighting here in France 
As in a senseless dream — 

A dream of shattering black shells 
That hurtle overhead, 
And dainty dancing demoiselles 
Above the dreamless dead. 



33] 



BATTLE 



THE JOKE 

He'd even have his joke 
While we were sitting tight. 
And so he needs must poke 
His silly head in sight 
To whisper some new jest 
ChortHng, but as he spoke 
A rifle cracked. ... 

And now God knows when I shall hear the 
rest! 



134] 



CHERRIES 



CHERRIES 

A handful of cherries 
She gave me in passing, 
The wizened old woman, 
And wished me good luck — 

And again I was dreaming, 
A boy in the sunshine, 
And life but an orchard 
Of cherries to pluck. 



[35] 



BATTLE 



THE HOUSEWIFE 

She must go back, she said, 

Because she'd not had time to make the bed. 

We'd hurried her away 

So roughly . . . and, for all that we could 

say. 
She broke from us, and passed 
Into the night, shells falling thick and fast. 



[36] 



VICTORY 



VICTORY 

I watched it oozing quietly 
Out of the gaping gash. 
The lads thrust on to victory 
With lunge and curse and crash. 

Half-dazed, that uproar seemed to me 

Like some old battle-sound 

Heard long ago, as quietly 

His blood soaked in the ground. 

The lads thrust on to victory 
With lunge and crash and shout. 
I lay and watched, as quietly 
His life was running out. 



37] 



BATTLE 



THE MESSAGES 

"I cannot quite remember. . , . There were 

five 
Dropt dead beside me in the trench — and 

three 
Whispered their dying messages to me. . . ." 

Back from the trenches, more dead than 

ahve, 
Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken 

knee. 
He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly: 

"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were 

five 
Dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three 

Whispered their dying messages to me. . . . 

[38] 



THE MESSAGES 



"Their friends are waiting, wondering how 

they thrive — 
Waiting a word in silence patiently. . . . 
But what they said, or who their friends 

may be 

"I cannot quite remember. . . . There were 

five 
Dropt dead beside me in the trench, — and 

three 
Whispered their dying messages to me. ..." 



[39] 



BATTLE 



THE QUIET 

I could not understand the sudden quiet — 
The sudden darkness — in the crash of fight, 
The din and glare of day quenched in a 

twinkling 
In utter starless night. 

I lay an age and idly gazed at nothing, 
Half-puzzled that I could not lift my head; 
And then I knew somehow that I was lying 
Among the other dead. 



[40 



FRIENDS 



TO THE MEMORY OF 
RUPERT BROOKE 

He's gone. 

I do not understand. 

I only know 

That as he turned to go 

And waved his hand 

In his young eyes a sudden glory shone: 

And I was dazzled by a sunset glow. 

And he was gone, 

23d April, 1915 



[43] 



FRIENDS 



RUPERT BROOKE 



Your face was lifted to the golden sky 
Ablaze beyond the black roofs of the square 
As flame on flame leapt, flourishing in air 
Its tumult of red stars exultantly 
To the cold constellations dim and high: 
And as we neared the roaring ruddy flare 
Kindled to gold your throat and brow and 

hair 
Until you burned, a flame of ecstasy. 

The golden head goes down into the night 
Quenched in cold gloom — and yet again you 
stand 

Beside me now with lifted face alight, 

[44 1 



RUPERT BROOKE 



As, flame to flame, and fire to fire you burn. . . . 
Then, recollecting, laughingly you turn. 
And look into my eyes and take my hand. 

II 

Once in my garret — you being far away 
Tramping the hills and breathing upland air, 
Or so I fancied — brooding in my chair, 
I watched the London sunshine feeble and grey 
Dapple my desk, too tired to labour more, 
When, looking up, I saw you standing there 
Although I'd caught no footstep on the stair, 
Like sudden April at my open door. 

Though now beyond earth's farthest hills 

you fare, 
Song-crowned, immortal, sometimes it seems 

to me 

[45] 



FRIENDS 



That, if I listen very quietly, 
Perhaps I'll hear a light foot on the stair 
And see you, standing with your angel air, 
Fresh from the uplands of eternity. 

Ill 

Your eyes rejoiced in colour's ecstasy. 
Fulfilling even their uttermost desire. 
When, over a great sunlit field afire 
With windy poppies streaming like a sea 
Of scarlet flame that flaunted riotously 
Among green orchards of that western shire, 
You gazed as though your heart could never 

tire 
Of life's red flood in summer revelry. 

And as I watched you, little thought had I 

How soon beneath the dim low-drifting sky 

[46] 



RUPERT BROOKE 



Your soul should wander down the darkling 

way, 
With eyes that peer a little wistfully, 
Half-glad, half-sad, remembering, as they see 
Lethean poppies, shrivelling ashen grey. 

IV 

October chestnuts showered their perishing 

gold 
Over us as beside the stream we lay 
In the Old Vicarage garden that blue day, 
Talking of verse and all the manifold 
Delights a little net of words may hold, 
While in the sunlight water-voles at play 
Dived under a trailing crimson bramble-spray. 
And walnuts thudded ripe on soft black 

mould. 

Your soul goes down unto a darker stream 

[47] 



FRIENDS 



Alone, O friend, yet even in death's deep 

night 
Your eyes may grow accustomed to the dark 
And Styx for you may have the ripple and 

gleam 
Of your familiar river, and Charon's bark 
Tarry by that old garden of your delight. 



48] 



WILLIAM DENIS BROWNE 



WILLIAM DENIS BROWNE 

(Gallipoli, 11th June, 1915) 

Night after night we two together heard 
The music of the Ring, 
The inmost silence of our being stirred 
By voice and string. 

Though I to-night in silence sit, and you, 
In stranger silence, sleep. 
Eternal music stirs and thrills anew 
The severing deep. 



49] 



FRIENDS 



TENANTS 

Suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways, 
We came upon the little house asleep 
In cold blind stillness, shadowless and deep. 
In the white magic of the full moon-blaze: 
Strangers without the gate, we stood agaze, 
Fearful to break that quiet, and to creep 
Into the house that had been ours to keep 
Through a long year of happy nights and 
days. 

So unfamiliar in the white moon-gleam. 
So old and ghostly like a house of dream 
It seemed, that over us there stole the dread 
That even as we watched it, side by side. 
The ghosts of lovers, who had lived and died 
Within its walls, were sleeping in our bed. 

[501 



SEA-CHANGE 



SEA-CHANGE 

Wind-flicked and ruddy her young body 

glowed 
In sunny shallows, splashing them to spray: 
But when on rippled silver sand she lay. 
And over her the little green waves flowed. 
Coldly translucent and moon-coloured showed 
Her frail young beauty, as if rapt away 
From all the light and laughter of the day 
To some twilit, forlorn sea-god's abode. 

Again into the sun with happy cry 

She leapt alive and sparkling from the sea. 

Sprinkling white spray against the hot blue sky, 

A laughing girl . . . and yet, I see her lie 

Under a deeper tide eternally 

In cold moon-coloured immortality. 

[511 



FRIENDS 



GOLD 

All day the mallet thudded, far below 
My garret, in an old ramshackle shed 
Where ceaselessly, with stiffly nodding head 
And rigid motions ever to and fro 
A figure like a puppet in a show 
Before the window moved till day was dead. 
Beating out gold to earn his daily bread, 
Beating out thin fine gold-leaf blow on blow. 

And I within my garret all day long 
To that unceasing thudding tuned my song. 
Beating out golden words in tune and time 
To that dull thudding, rhyme on golden rhyme. 
But in my dreams all night in that dark shed 

With aching arms I beat fine gold for bread. 

[521 



THE OLD BED 



THE OLD BED 

Streaming beneath the eaves, the sunset h'ght 
Turns the white walls and ceiling to pure gold, 
And gold, the quilt and pillows on the old 
Fourposter bed — all day a cold drift-white — 
As if, in a gold casket glistering bright. 
The gleam of winter sunshine sought to hold 
The sleeping child safe from the dark and cold 
And creeping shadows of the coming night. 

Slowly it fades : and stealing through the gloom 

Home-coming shadows throng the quiet room. 

Grey ghosts that move unrustling, without 

breath. 

To their familiar rest, and closer creep 

About the little dreamless child asleep 

Upon the bed of bridal, birth and death. 

[53] 



FRIENDS 



TREES 

(To Lascelles Abercrombie) 

The jflames half Ht the cavernous mystery 
Of the over-arching elm that loomed profound 
And mountainous above us, from the ground 
Soaring to midnight stars majestically, 
As, under the shelter of that ageless tree 
In a rapt dreaming circle we lay around 
The crackling faggots, listening to the sound 
Of old words moving in new harmony. 

And as you read, before our wondering eyes 
Arose another tree of mighty girth — 
Crested with stars though rooted in the earth. 
Its heavy-foliaged branches, lit with gleams 
Of ruddy firelight and the light of dreams — 

Soaring immortal to eternal skies. 

[54 1 



OBLIVION 



OBLIVION 

Near the great pyramid, unshadowed, white. 
With apex piercing the white noon-day blaze, 
Swathed in white robes beneath the bhnding 

rays 
Lie sleeping Bedouins drenched in white-hot 

hght. 
About them, searing to the tinghng sight. 
Swims the white dazzle of the desert ways 
Where the sense shudders, witless and adaze. 
In a white void with neither depth nor height. 

Within the black core of the pyramid 

Beneath the weight of sunless centuries 

Lapt in dead night King Cheops lies asleep: 

Yet in the darkness of his chamber hid 

He knows no black oblivion more deep 

Than that blind white oblivion of noon skies. 

[55] 



FRIENDS 



COLOUR 

A blue-black Nubian plucking oranges 
At Jaffa by a sea of malachite 
In red tarboosh, green sash, and flowing white 
Burnous — among the shadowy memories 
That haunt me yet by these bleak Northern 

seas 
He lives for ever in my eyes' delight, 
Bizarre, superb in young immortal might — 
A god of old barbaric mysteries. 

Maybe he lived a life of lies and lust: 

Maybe his bones are now but scattered dust: 

Yet, for a moment he was life supreme 

Exultant and unchallenged: and my rhyme 

Would set him safely out of reach of time 

In that old heaven where things are what they 

seem. 

[56] 



NIGHT 

NIGHT 

Vesuvius, purple under purple skies 
Beyond the purple, still, unrippling sea; 
Sheer amber lightning, streaming ceaselessly 
From heaven to earth, dazzling bewildered 

eyes 
With all the terror of beauty: thus day dies 
That dawned in blue, unclouded innocency; 
And thus we look our last on Italy 
That soon, obscured by night, behind us lies. 

And night descends on us, tempestuous night, 
Night, torn with terror, as we sail the deep; 
And like a cataract down a mountain-steep 
Pours, loud with thunder, that red perilous 

fire. . . . 
Yet shall the dawn, O land of our desire. 

Show thee again, re-orient, crowned with light! 

[57] 



FRIENDS 



THE ORPHANS 

At five o'clock one April morn 
I met them making tracks, 
Young Benjamin and Abel Horn, 
With bundles on their backs. 

Young Benjamin is seventy-five. 
Young Abel, seventy -seven — 
The oldest innocents alive 
Beneath that April heaven. 

I asked them why they trudged about 

With crabby looks and sour — 

"And does your mother know you're out 

At this unearthly hour?" 

[581 



THE ORPHANS 



They stopped: and scowling up at me 
Each shook a grizzled head. 
And swore; and then spat bitterly, 
As with one voice they said : 

"Homeless, about the country-side 
We never thought to roam; 
But mother, she has gone and died. 
And broken up the home." 



[591 



FRIENDS 



? 

Mooning in the moonlight 
I met a mottled pig, 
Grubbing mast and acorn, 
On the Gallows Rigg. 

"Tell, oh tell me truly, 
While I wander blind. 
Do your peepy pig's eyes 
Really see the wind — 

"See the great wind flowing 

Darkling and agleam 

Through the fields of heaven 

In a crystal stream? 
[60] 



? 



*'Do the singing eddies 
Break on bough and twig 
Into silvery sparkles 
For your eyes, O pig? 

"Do celestial surges 
Sweep across the night 
Like a sea of glory 
In your blessed sight? 

"Tell, oh tell me truly!" 
But the mottled pig 
Grubbing mast and acorns. 
Did not care a fig. 



61 



FRIENDS 



THE PESSIMIST 

His body bulged with puppies — little eyes 
Peeped out of every pocket, black and bright; 
And with as innocent, round-eyed surprise 
He watched the glittering traffic of the night. 

"What this world's coming to I cannot tell," 
He muttered, as I passed him, with a whine — 
"Things surely must be making slap for hell, 
When no one wants these little dogs of mine." 



[62] 



THE SWEET-TOOTH 



THE SWEET-TOOTH 

Taking a turn after tea 
Through orchards of Mirabelea 
Where clusters of yellow and red 
Dangled and glowed overhead. 
Who should I see 
But old Timothy, 

Hale and hearty as hearty could be — 
Timothy under a crab-apple tree. 

His blue eyes twinkling at me, 

Munching and crunching with glee 

And wagging his wicked old head, 

"IVe still got a sweet -tooth," he said, 

*'A hundred and three 

Come January, 

I've one tooth left in my head," said he — 

Timothy under the crab-apple tree. 

[631 



FRIENDS 



GIRL'S SONG 

I saw three black pigs riding 
In a blue and yellow cart — 
Three black pigs riding to the fair 
Behind the old grey dappled mare — 
But it wasn't black pigs riding 
In a gay and gaudy cart 
That sent me into hiding 
With a flutter in my heart. 

I heard the cart returning, 

The jolting jingling cart — 

Returning empty from the fair 

Behind the old jog-trotting mare — ' 

But it wasn't the returning 

Of a clattering, empty cart 

That sent the hot blood burning 

And throbbing through my heart. 
[64 1 



THE ICE-CART 



THE ICE-CART 

Perched on my city office-stool, 

I watched with envy, while a cool 

And lucky carter handled ice. . . . 

And I was wandering in a trice. 

Far from the grey and grimy heat 

Of that intolerable street. 

O'er sapphire berg and emerald floe, 

Beneath the still, cold ruby glow 

Of everlasting Polar night, 

Bewildered by the queer half-light. 

Until I stumbled, unawares. 

Upon a creek where big white bears 

Plunged headlong down with flourished heels 

And floundered after shining seals 

Through shivering seas of blinding blue. 

And as I watched them, ere I knew, 

[65] 



FRIENDS 



I'd stripped, and I was swimming, too. 

Among the seal-pack, young and hale. 

And thrusting on with threshing tail. 

With twist and twirl and sudden leap 

Through crackling ice and salty deep — 

Diving and doubling with my kind, 

Until, at last, we left behind 

Those big, white, blundering bulks of 

death. 

And lay, at length, with panting breath 

Upon a far untravelled floe. 

Beneath a gentle drift of snow — 

Snow drifting gently, fine and white. 

Out of the endless Polar night. 

Falling and falling evermore 

Upon that far untravelled shore. 

Till I was buried fathoms deep 

Beneath that cold white drifting sleep — 

[661 



THE ICE-CART 



Sleep drifting deep, 
Deep drifting sleep. . . . 

The carter cracked a sudden whip: 
I clutched my stool with startled grip, 
Awakening to the grimy heat 
Of that intolerable street. 



[67] 



FRIENDS 



TO E. M. 

(In memory of R. B.) 

The night we saw the stacks of timber 

blaze 
To terrible golden fury, young and strong 
He watched between us with dream-dazzled 

gaze 
Aflame, and burning like a god of song, 
As we together stood against the throng 
Drawn from the midnight of the city ways. 

To-night the world about us is ablaze 

And he is dead, is dead. . . . Yet, young 

and strong 

He watches with us still with deathless gaze 

[68] 



TO E. M. 

Aflame, and burning like a god of song, 
As we together stand against the throng 
Drawn from the bottomless midnight of hell's 
ways. 

10th June, 1915. 



[69] 



FRIENDS 



MARRIAGE 

Going my way of old 
Contented more or less 
I dreamt not life could hold 
Such happiness. 

I dreamt not that love's way 
Could keep the golden height 
Day after happy day. 
Night after night. 



[70] 



ROSES 



ROSES 

Red roses floating in a crystal bowl 
You bring, O love; and in your eyes I see, 
Blossom on blossom, your warm love of me 
Burning within the crystal of your soul — 
Red roses floating in a crystal bowl. 



[71] 



FRIENDS 



FOR G. 

All night under the moon 
Plovers are flying 

Over the dreaming meadows of silvery light, 
Over the meadows of June 
Flying and crying — 

Wandering voices of love in the hush of the 
night. 

All night under the moon, 
Love, though we're lying 
Quietly under the thatch, in silvery light 
Over the meadows of June 
Together we're flying — 
Rapturous voices of love in the hush of the 
night. 

[72] 



HOME 

HOME 

I 

RETURN 

Under the brown bird-haunted eaves of thatch 
The hollyhocks in crimson glory burned 
Against black timbers and old rosy brick, 
And over the green door in clusters thick 
Hung tangled passion-flowers, when we re- 
turned 
To our own threshold : and with hand on latch 
We stood a moment in the sunset gleam 
And looked upon our home as in a dream. 

Rapt in a golden glow of still delight 
Together on the threshold in the sun 

We stood rejoicing that we two had won 

[73] 



FRIENDS 



To this deep golden peace ere day was done, 
That over gloomy plain and storm-swept 

height 
We two, O love, had won to home ere night. 

II 

CANDLE-LIGHT 

Where through the open window I could see 

The supper-table in the golden light 

Of tall white candles — brasses glinting bright 

On the black gleaming board, and crockery 

Coloured like gardens of old Araby — 

In your blue gown against the walls of white 

You stood adream, and in the starry night 

I felt strange loneliness steal over me. 

You stood with eyes upon the candle flame 

That kindled your thick hair to burnished gold, 

[74] 



HOME 

As in a golden spell that seemed to hold 
My heart's love rapt from me for evermore. . . . 
And then you stirred, and opening the door, 
Into the starry night you breathed my name. 

Ill 

FIRELIGHT 

Against the curtained casement wind and sleet 
Rattle and thresh, while snug by our own fire 
In dear companionship that naught may tire 
We sit, — you listening, sewing in your seat, 
Half-dreaming in the glow of light and heat, 
I reading some old tale of love's desire 
That swept on gold wings to disaster dire 
Then sprang re-orient from black defeat. 

I close the book, and louder yet the storm 

Threshes without. Your busy hands are still; 

[75] 



FRIENDS 



And on your face and hair the light is warm. 
As we sit gazing on the coals' red gleam 
In a gold glow of happiness, and dream 
Diviner dreams the years shall yet fulfil. 

IV 

MIDNIGHT 

Between the midnight pillars of black elms 
The old moon hangs, a thin, cold, amber flame 
Over low ghostly mist: a lone snipe wheels 
Through shadowy moonshine, droning: and 

there steals 
Into my heart a fear without a name 
Out of primaeval night's resurgent realms. 
Unearthly terror, chilling me with dread 
As I lie waking wide-eyed on the bed. 

And then you turn towards me in your sleep 

Murmuring, and with a sigh of deep content 

[761 



HOME 

You nestle to my breast; and over me 
Steals the warm peace of you; and, all fear 

spent, 
I hold you to me sleeping quietly. 
Till I, too, sink in slumber sound and deep. 



[77] 



STONEFOLDS 



* These dramatic poems were written in 1906. 

[79] 



The ragged heather-ridge is black 
Against the sunset's frosty rose; 
With rustling breathy down syke and slack. 
The icy, eager north-wind blows. 

It shivers through my hair, and flicks 
The blood into my tingling cheek; 
And with adventurous urging pricks 
My spirit, that in drowsy reek 

Of gloudng peats had dreamt too long. 
Crouched in the cosy ingle-nook, 
Till life seemed vainer than the song 
The kettle sings upon the crook — 

Till life seemed vainer than the puff 
Of steam that perished in hot air — 
A fretful fume, a vapour stuff 
Of gusty passion, cloudy care. 

But as, once more, I watch the stars 
Re-kindle iri the glittering west. 
Beyond the fell-top's naked scars. 
Life rouses in me with new zest. 

The immortal wakens in my blood 
Beneath the wind's relentless thresh; 
And universal life at flood 
Breaks through the bonds of bone and flesh. 

I scale the utmost peak of night. 
The eternal breath upon my face; 
Till, borne on plumes of singing light, 
I lose myself in starry space. 
[801 



STONEFOLDS 

Persons: 

Nicholas Thirlwall, an old shepherd. 
Rachel Thirlwall, his wife. 
Ruth Thirlwall, his daughter. 
Ralph Moore, a young shepherd, 

Nicholas' nephew. 

Scene: The living-room of Stonefolds^ a shep- 
herd's house on the fells. A door opens on to the 
yard, another to the back of the Jiouse. Nicholas, 
an infirm, old man, sits on the settle by the peat-fire 
with his back to the outer door. His wife, Rachel, 
moves about putting things away in a cupboard, 
tending the fire, &c. A clock in the corner ticks 

loudly. Storm rages without 

[811 



STONEFOLDS 



Nicholas. 

Is Ralph there? 

Rachel. 

Nay, he's gone back to the fold. 

Nicholas. 

If only I might go with him! It's strange 

The year's lambs should be born, and I not 
there. 

The labouring ewes will miss my hand to- 
night; 

Though Ralph's a careful fellow, he is young; 

And six-and-fifty lambings have I seen. 

It's hard, it's hard that I sit crippled here 

When there's so much to do — so much to do! 

That I, who should be tending the young lambs, 

As helpless as a yeanling crouch and shake 

Beside the peats, and shudder at the night. 

[82] 



STONEFOLDS 



Rachel. 

It's a wild night! See how beneath the door 
The snow has silted. It's a perilous night 
For young things to be born. Hark to the wind ! 

Nicholas. 

Ay, it's the lambing-storm. 

Rachel. 

I'll set a pan 

Of milk upon the hob, for Ralph may bring 

Some motherless lamb to tend before the fire. 

Nicholas. 

It's hard, it's hard that all may help but me — 

While I have seen so many young things bom, 

So many perish in my time. Worn out. 

Useless and old, I sit before the fire 

Warming my hands that once were never cold. 

And now are never warm. I sit and shake 

[83] 



STONEFOLDS 



Like quaking-grass, and cannot even rise 
To shift my seat, or turn my hand to aught, 
When there's so much to do. 
(A noise as of someone knocking the snow off his 
boots against the threshold.) 

What's that? 

Rachel. 

It's Ralph. 

{Tlie door opens ^ and Ralph comes in, white with 
snow, carrying a lantJiorn, and a new-born lamb 
wrapped in his plaid. He looks about him, as 
though expecting to see someone with Nicholas and 
Rachel; then, ivith a sigh, he sets down the Ian- 
thorn on the table, and carries the lamb to the 
Jiearth, and lays it on the rug before the fire, while 
Rachel fills a bottle with warm milk.) 

Ralph. 

The old lame ewe is dead. I've brought her lamb 

[84] 



STONEFOLDS 



To lie before the fire; but it is weak 
And like to die. 

Nicholas. 

Had I but tended her! 

Ralph. 

The ewe was old. 

Nicholas. 

Ay, ay, the ewe was old, 

And so must die, and none pay any heed ! 

I, too, am old — I, too, am growing old. 

Ralph, to Rachel^ who is kneeling by the lamb. 
You keep the yeanling warm till I come back, 
I doubt that it can live; but I must go. 

{Takes his lanthorn and goes out.) 
Rachel. 

Ralph's a good lad and has a tender heart. 

[85] 



STONEFOLDS 



Nicholas. 

Ay, he's a careful fellow. He should wed. 

At his age I'd been wed hard on a year. 

Rachel. 

But Ralph will never wed. 

Nicholas. 

Why should he not? 

He is a likely lad. Why should he not? 

Rachel. 

It's just a year to-night since Ruth left home. 

Nicholas. 

Ruth! What of Ruth? The lass has made her 

bed, 
And she must lie upon it now. 

Rachel. 

Poor Ruth! 

Yet, Ralph will never wed. 

[86] 



STONEFOLDS 



Nicholas. 

How can you tell? 
Rachel. 

I watch him as he sits before the fire 

Each night in his own corner, with still eyes 

That gaze and gaze into the glowing peats 

Until they burn as fiercely as the flame 

On which they feed; and sometimes, suddenly. 

His fingers grip the settle till it shakes; 

And when I speak he heeds not, till the light 

Has perished from his eyes, and, dull as ash. 

They look upon the crumbling peats once 

more. 

Nicholas. 

A woman's fancies! Ralph is not a boy 

To peak and pine because a silly wench. 

Who, if she'd had but wit, might be his wife, 

Flits one fine night. O Ruth! to give up Ralph 

[87] 



STONEFOLDS 



For that young wastrel, Michael! Ralph must 

wed 
The sooner if he broods. A wife and babes 
Will leave him little time for idle brooding. 
He's not the fool his father was. 

Rachel. 

Poor Ruth! 

Yet, Ralph will never wed. At other times, 

I see him sit and hearken all night long 

As though he fretted for some well-known foot — 

Listening with his whole body, like a hare — 

Bolt-upright on the settle; every nerve 

Astrain to catch the never-falling sound 

Of home-returning steps. Only last night 

I watched him till my heart was sore for him. 

He seemed to listen with his very eyes. 

That gleamed like some wild creature's. 

{The clock strikes.) It's gone ten. 

[881 



STONEFOLDS 



Come, Nicholas, I will help you to your 
bed. 

Nicholas. 

Nay, nay! I'll not to bed to-night. Why, 

lass, 
I have not gone to bed at lambing-time 
Since I could hold a Ian thorn! That must be 
Nigh sixty years; and I'll not sleep to-night. 
Though I be as much use asleep as waking 
Since my legs failed me, yet, I could not sleep. 
I can but sit and think about the lambs 
That in the fold are opening wondering eyes. 
Poor new-born things ! 

Rachel. 

This one lies very still. 

I'll get more peats to heap upon the fire. 

It's cold, maybe. (Goes through the inner door.) 

[891 



STONEFOLDS 



Nicholas. 

It's weak, and like to die. 

{TJie outer door slowly opens, and Ruth enters, 
wearily, with hesitating steps. She is dressed in a 
cloak, and is covered with snow. She pauses un- 
certainly in the middle of the room, and looks at 
her father, who, unaware of her presence, still sits 
gazing at the lamb, which opens its mouth as if to 
bleat, but makes no sound.) 

Nicholas. 

Poor, bleating beast ! We two are much alike, 
At either end of life, though scarce an hour 
You've been in this rough world, and I so long 
That death already has me by the heels ; 
For neither of us can stir to help himself. 
But both must bleat for others' aid. This world 
Is rough and bitter to the newly born. 

But far more bitter to the nearly dead. 

[901 



STONEFOLDS 



Ruth, softly. 
Father! 

Nicholas, not hearing her, and still mumbling to 
himself. 

I've seen so many young things born. 
So many perish ! 

{Rachel eiders , and, seeing Ruth, drops the peats 
which she is carrying and folds Iter to her breast.) 

Rachel. 

Ruth! My child, my child! 

Nicholas, still gazing into the fire. 
Why harp on Ruth? The lass has made her 
bed. . . . 

Ruth, tottering towards him and kneeling on the 

rug by his side. 

Father! 

[911 



STONEFOLDS 



Nicholas. 

What, is it Ruth? (Fondling her.) 

My child, my child! 
Why, you are cold; and you are white with 

snow! 
You shiver, lass, like any new-born lamb. 
(Rachel meanwhile strips off Ruth's cloak, and fills 
a cup with milk from the pan on the hob.) 

Ruth. 

I thought I never should win home. The snow 

Was all about me. Even now my eyes 

Are blinded by the whirling white that stung 

My face like knotted cords, and in my ears 

Rustled of death — of cold, white, swirling death. 

I thought I never should win home again 

With that wild night against me. How I fought! 

I was so weary, I was fain at whiles 

[921 



STONEFOLDS 



To strive no more against the cruel night, 
And could have lain down gladly in a drift, 
As in my bed, to die . . . had I not 

known. . . 
Yet, knowing, I dared not. But I am dazed. 

Rachel, holding the cup to Ruth's lips. 
Come, drink this milk. 'Twas heated for the 

lambs. 
I little knew that for my own poor lamb 
I set it on the hob an hour ago! 

Ruth, seeing for the first time the lamb on the 

hearth. 

The lambs .-^ I had forgotten — I am dazed. 

This is the lambing-time; and Ralph . . . 

and Ralph . . . 
Nicholas. 

Is in the fold, where I should be if I . . . 

[931 



STONEFOLDS 



Ruth, bending over the lamb. 

Ah, what a night to come into the world ! 

Poor, motherless thing ! and those poor, patient 

mothers ! 
I might have known it was the lambing-storm. 
{She moans and almost falls, but Rachel stays her 
in her arms.) 

Rachel. 

Child, you are ill! 

Ruth. 

Yes, I am near my time. 

Rachel, raising her from the ground and sup- 
porting her. 

Come, daughter, your own bed awaits you now, 
And has awaited you these many nights. 
Come, Ruth. {Tiiey move slowly across the 

room.) 

[941 



STONEFOLDS 



Ruth. 

I thought I never should win home. 
Nicholas, as they pass into the inner room. 
Yes, I have seen so many young things born, 
So many perish! Rachel! They are gone; 
And we're alone again, the lamb and I. 
Poor beast, poor beast, has she forgotten you 
Now that her own stray lamb is home again? 
You lie so still and bleat no longer now. 
It's only I bleat now. Maybe, you're dead. 
And will not bleat again, or need to bleat, 
Because you're spared by death from growing 

old; 
And it can scarce be long till death's cold clutch 
Shall stop my bleating too. 
{He sits gazing into the fire, and dozes. Time 
passes. The cry of a new-born babe is heard from 
the next room.) 



[95] 



STONEFOLDS 



Nicholas, mumbling, half asleep. 

Yes, I have seen 
So many young things born, so many perish ! 
{He dozes again. After a while Rachel enters, 
carrying a baby wrapped in a blanket, which sJie 
lays on the rug before the fire.) 

Rachel. 

See, Nicholas ! Wake up ! It is Ruth's child. 

Nicholas, waking. 

Ruth's child ! Why, Ruth is but a child herself ! 

Rachel. 

Don't sleep again, for you must watch the babe 

While I go back to Ruth again. She lies 

So still and cold; and knows naught of the child. 

Unless she rouse, she cannot last till day. 

(Goes into the other room.) 
[961 



STONEFOLDS 



Nicholas. 

So many young things perish; and I, so old. 

Am left to sit all day with idle hands. 

And can do naught to save them. 

{Tlw knocking of snovyy hoots against the threshold 

is heard again. The door opens, and Ralph 

enters with his lanthorn.) 

Is that Ralph? 

{Ralph goes towards the lamb, but, seeing the 

child, stands gazing in amazement.) 

Ralph. 

Uncle, what babe is this? 

Nicholas. 

Lad, Ruth is home. 

Ralph. 

Ruth has come home! I knew that she would 

come. 

[971 



STONEFOLDS 



She could not stay, though held so long from 

me. 
For I have ever called her in my heart, 
By day and night, through all the weary year. 
I knew — I knew that she would come to-night 
Through storm and peril, and within the fold 
My heart has gone out to the labouring ewes. 
And new-born lambs, and all weak, helpless 

things. 
And yet I might have killed her! — though I 

sought 
Only to draw her to my shielding breast. 
She might have fallen by the way, and died, 
On such a night! She shall not stray again. 
The love that drew her from the perilous night 
May never let her go. 

{Rachel, entering, is about to speak, but seeing 
Ralph, pauses.) 



[98] 



STONEFOLDS 



Ralph, to Rachel. 

Ruth has come home! 

And we shall never let her go again. 

Rachel, speaking slowly. 

Ay, Ruth is home. 

(Going to tfie hearth and taking the child in her 

arms.) 

You poor, poor, motherless babe! 

{Ralph gazes at lier as tJwugh stunned, then bends 

over the lamb.) 

Ralph. 

It's dead. I must go back now to the fold. 

I shall be there till morning. 

{He crosses to the door and goes out.) 

Rachel, calling after him. 

Ralph ! your plaid ! 

{She follows to the door and opens it. The snow 

drifts into the room.) 

[991 



STONEFOLDS 



Rachel. 

He's gone without his lanthorn and his plaid. 

God keep him safe on such a night! Poor 

Ralph! 
Ruth's babe no longer breathes. 

{Laying the child by tlie dead lamb.) 

To-night has death 
Shown pity to the motherless and weak. 
And folded them in peace. How sweet they 

sleep ! 

Nicholas. 

We two have seen so many young things born, 

So many perish; yet death takes us not. 

Wife, bar the door; that wind blows through 

my bones. 

It's a long night. (Clock strikes.) 

What hour is that.'* 
[1001 



STONEFOLDS 



Rachel. 

It's one; 
The night is over. 

Nicholas. 

Yet another day! 



[101] 



STONEFOLDS 



THE BRIDAL 

Persons: 

Hugh Shield, a young shepherd. 
Esther Shield, his bride. 
Ann Shield, his mother. 

Scene: The living-room of Bleakridge, a lonely 
shepherd'' s cottage on the fells. In one corner is a 
four-post bed on which Ann Shield, an old, bed- 
ridden woman, lies sleeping, unseen behind the 
closed curtains. On the table in the middle of the 
room a meal is spread. The latch clicks, the 
door opens, and Hugh Shield enters, glancing 
towards the bed, then turns to hold open tlie 
door for EstJier Shield, who follows him into tlie 

room. 

[102] 



THE BRIDAL 



Hugh. 

Wife, welcome home! 

(Embracing her, and leading her to a chair.) 

Come, rest, for you are tired. 
Esther. 

No, I'm not weary. (Looking towards bed.) 
Does your mother sleep? 

Hugh, crossing to bed and peering betwixt the 

curtains. 

Ay, she sleeps sound, and we'll not waken her, 

For she is ever fretful when she wakes. 

It would not do to break the news . . . 

Esther. 

The news ! 

Did she not know we were to wed to-day .^^ 

Hugh. 

She did not know I was to wed at all. 
[103] 



STONEFOLDS 



Esther. 

Hugh! Why did you not tell her? 

Hugh. 

I don't know. 

I would have told her when I spoke to you — 

Just seven nights since — it seems so long ago ! — 

But when I breathed your name she put me off 

Ere I had told my will. She's sorely failed, 

And wanders in her speech. A chance word 

serves 
To scare her like a shadow-startled ewe, 
And send her old mind rambling through the 

past 
Till I can scarce keep pace with her. Next 

morn 
I spoke, and still she would not hear me out. 
And yet she ever liked you, lass, and naught 

She spoke against you; only her poor wits 

[ 104 1 



THE BRIDAL 



Are like a flock of sheep without a herd; 
And so she mumbled idle, driftless things; 
Unless it were a mother's jealous fear 
That made her cunning, and she sought to 

turn 
My thoughts from you. Old people aye dread 

change. 

Esther. 

You should have told her ere we wedded, Hugh. 

Hugh. 

When I arose this morn, I went to her 

To tell her, but she slept; and when I set 

Her breakfast on the table by her bed, 

I would have waked her, and stretched out my 

hand 

To rouse her, and the words were on my lips; 

And yet, I didn't touch her, spoke no word. 
[105 1 



STONEFOLDS 



I was afraid to speak, I don't know why. 
'Twas folly, lass, and yet I could not speak. 

Esther. 

You should have told her. 

Hugh. 

Well, it doesn't matter; 

For we are wedded, Esther. I'm no boy. 
That I must ever ask my mother's leave 
Ere I do aught. I left her sleeping still; 
And when she waked, she'd think me with the 

sheep ; 
And sup her meal in peace; and little know 
Into what fold I wandered, and with whom! 

Esther. 

You should have told her, Hugh. She will be 

wroth 

[106] 



THE BRIDAL 



To wake and find you wed. If you were fright- 
ened 
To tell her then, how will you tell her now? 

Hugh. 

'Twas not her wrath I feared. I scarce know 

why 
I did not tell her; for I would have wed 
Though she had bidden me "Nay" a thousand 

times. 
Lass, do you think a word would hold me back, 
Like a cowed collie, when I would be forth .^^ 
Not all the world could keep me from you, lass. 
Once I had set my heart on you. D'you think 
I should have taken "Nay," lass, even from you! 

Esther. 

Ay, you are masterful; and had your way 

To church ere scarce I knew it ; and, yet, Hugh, 
[1071 



STONEFOLDS 



You had not had your way so easily 
Had it not been my way as well! 

Hugh. 

Ay, lass. 

Naught could have held us from each other — 

naught; 
And naught shall ever part us. 

Esther, glancing towards the bed. 

Hugh, she stirs. 
Your voice has wakened her. 

Ann, from the bed. 

Hugh, are you there? 

Hugh, going towards the bed. 
Ay, mother. 

Ann. 

Lad, what hour is it? 
[1081 



THE BRIDAL 



Hugh. 

Nigh noon. 

Ann. 

I did not wake till you had gone this morn. 

I must have slumbered soundly, though I 

slept 
But little in the night. I could not sleep. 
I lay awake, and watched the dark hours pass ; 
They seemed to trail as slowly as the years 
On which I brooded, and did naught but brood, 
Though my eyes burned for slumber — those 

dark years 
So long since passed ! I did not sleep till dawn ; 
And then I dreamt again of those dark years ; 
And in my dream they seemed to threaten you. 
And when I waked the clock was striking nine. 
And you were gone. I must have slept again, 

For you are here. I did not hear the latch. 

[109 1 



STONEFOLDS 



Hugh. 

Mother, I spoke to you the other eve 

Of Esther — but you did not heed . . . 

Ann. 

My dream! 

Hugh, lad, I heard your words with fearful 

heart, 
Yet, could not speak. Son, you must never 

wed. 

Hugh. 

What say you, mother! Am I yet a boy — 

A pup to bring to heel with "must" and 

"shall".? 
Mother, this cur's beyond your call! 

Ann. 

Nay, lad, 

I don't bid you for bidding's sake; nor yet 

[110] 



THE BRIDAL 



Because I dread another mistress here. 
Hugh, son, my mother's heart would have 

you wed; 
Yet this same heart cries out to hinder you. 
Beheve me, for your happiness I speak. 
You must not wed. 

Hugh. 

Hush, mother! Don't speak now. 
{He motions to Esther, who comes forward to the 
bed.) 

Ann, turning towards Esther. 

Is someone there? You should have told me, 

Hugh. 
Who is it, lad; for my old eyes are weak, 
And the light dazzles them.'* I know the 

face. 

Is't Esther Ord? 

[Ill] 



SrONKFOl.DS 



Hue 11. 

No, l^lsllicM- Slii(>l(l, my ln'ule. 

Ann, (tftrr a pause. 

TluMi il\s Loo laU'! I Lid 1 l)uL spoken 

lllCMl, 

Or held my lonj^iie for vvvrl 

Hugh. 

Thai wcro best. 

Don' I hvcd \wv, hiss. She doesn't know wliiit 
slie says. 

Ann. 

Wonkl Ihat I dichi'l know, had never known! 

O son, it's you who (h> nol know. t>uL 

now, 
Tl is loo hile, loo hiio. TTow could I Ihink 
That you would wed, and iie\'cr breathe a 

word ! 



niK UIMDAL 



And yd, I might have known, 1 niiglil liavc 

known! 
You hjivc your father's will. 

Ihu;!!. 

Ay, molli<T, words 

Arc nauglit to nie })ut words: and ;\\\ your 

words 

Would never stay me whc^ri my heart was set. 

Jf 'twas my l',-i,tli(;r's way, 1 am Iiis son. 

Ann. 

You are his son. Would, lad, that you were 
not! 

IIUGII. 

Mother! 



Ann. 



You're right, son, I will say no rnon; 
I 1 1.'} I 



STONEFOLDS 



I should have spoken then, or not at all. 
It's now too late to speak. 

Esther. 

It's not too late. 

Hugh, slowly. 

Esther says truly. It's not yet too late. 
You shall speak on now; it's too late to leave 
Your thought unspoken, mother. You have 

said 
Too much — too little to keep silence now. 
The gate's unbarred; you cannot stay the 

flock. 

Ann. 

Have I not kept my counsel all these years? 
Nay, I'll not speak now; it's too late, too late. 
{Turning to Esther.) 

Esther, my lass, I would you had not heard. 

[114 1 



THE BRIDAL 



I wish you well, though you may doubt it 

now — 
I wish you well with all my heart. Come nigh 
That I may kiss you. 

Esther. 

It is not too late. 

If you have any mercy in your heart, 

Speak out your mind as though I were not 

here. 

Hugh. 

Ay, you shall speak out now. 

Ann. 

Then I shall speak. 

Maybe it's not too late. I shall speak out 

As I would one had spoken out to me 

Upon my bridal-morn. If my words seem 

Too fierce, too bitter, it's because they spring 
[115] 



STONEFOLDS 



From a fierce, bitter heart. O Esther, lass, 
'Twere better you should die than your young 

heart 
Grow old and fierce and bitter — better far 
That it should break, and you should die, 

than live 
To grow old in black bitterness and wrath 
As I have done. I have not much life left, 
But I would save yoUj lass, with my last 

breath, 
If any word can fend off destiny. 
And, Hugh, my son, though I speak bitter 

things 

To your unhappiness, I only seek 

To snatch you from disaster. You have said 

That words are weak : yet, I have nothing else. 

You will not hate a poor, old woman, Hugh, 

Because she snatches at a wisp of straw 

[116 1 



THE BRIDAL 



To save the son who drowns before her eyes? 
I must speak out the bitter, galHng truth. 
Though you should hate me, son, for ever- 
more. 

Hugh. 

Say on : I shall not hate you. Speak out all 

If it will ease you. 

Ann. 

Naught can bring me ease 

Save death, and death bides long. Yet, I 

will speak. 
You did not know your father, Hugh; he died 
When you were in your cradle. You have 

heard 
How, on a hurdle, he was brought home dead 
From Thirlwall Crags; for folk have told you 

this, 

[117] 



STONEFOLDS 



Though I have never breathed his name to 

you. 
They wondered how he fell. He did not fall. 
And when I never spoke of him, they thought 
That I was dumb with sorrow. It was hate 
That held me mute. How should I mourn him 

dead 
Whom I had hated living! Don't speak, 

Hugh, 
Till I have told you all. Then you shall judge. 
I scarce have breath to tell the tale; and yet, 
'Twill soon be told; and if you hate me, son, 
As I did hate your father, I fear not, 
For I am too nigh death; and soon shall lie. 
Unmindful of your hate as he of mine. 
I could not hate you, son, although you bear 
His name, and though his blood runs in your 

veins. 



[1181 



THE BRIDAL 



When first I knew him he was much like you — 
As tall and broad and comely, and his eyes 
The same fierce blue, his hair the same dull 

red. 
Ay, you are like your father to your hands — 
Your big, brown, cruel hands! You have his 

grip. 
And he was just about your age; and lived 
Here with his father, a fierce, silent man — 
Mad Hugh the neighbours called him — whose 

wife died 
Ere she could weary of her wedding-gown. 
Folk said that fear had killed her. Yet, when 

Hugh, 

Your father, wooed, I could not say him nay, 

Though he was like his father. I was young. 

And loved him for his very fierceness; proud 

Because he was so big and strong; and yet, 
[119] 



STONEFOLDS 



I ever feared him; and, poor, trembling fool, 
'Twas fear that drove me to him; and we 

wed 
When old Hugh died. The day he brought 

me home — 
Home to this self-same house, I shrank from 

him 

Because I feared him, and he saw my fear. 

I feared the passion in his wild, blue eyes, 

And loathed his fiery love — so nigh to hate. 

But I was his; and there was none to speak 

As now I speak, or, on that very morn, 

I should have left him. Ah, had I but known! 

I was so young. A bitter year wore through. 

And you were born, son: still I could not die. 

Though fear was ever on me, and he knew 

I feared him, and for that he hated me. 

Have patience, lad; the tale is well-nigh told. 

[1201 



THE BRIDAL 



One day, when his hand touched me, I 

shrank back. 
He saw, and sudden frenzy filled his eyes; 
He clutched me by the throat with savage 

grip, 
And flung me fiercely from him; and I fell 
Against the hearthstone, and knew nothing 

more. 
Till, coming to myself again, I found 
That he was gone; and all the room was 

dark. 
The night had fallen; and I heard you cry — 
For you were in your cradle, Hugh — and 

rose. 
Though all my body quivered with keen pain. 
To suckle you. Next morn they brought 

him in. 

Dead on a hurdle. When I swooned and fell, 
[121] 



STONEFOLDS 



They thought that grief had killed me; but, 

even then, 
I could not die, and came to life again. 
And wakened on this bed I have not left 
So many years. The folk were good to me. 
And as they tended you I heard them talk. 
And wonder how your father came to fall; 
Yet, I spoke naught of him, because I knew 
He hadn't fallen; biit headlong to death 
Had leapt, afraid his hand had murdered me. 
Ay, panic drove him. . . . You must hear 

me out. 
Don't speak yet, lad. I have not much to 

say. 
But you are all your father! 

Hugh. 

I shall speak! 

Say, mother, have I ever done you ill.^^ 

[122] 



THE BRIDAL 



Ann. 

No, son, you ever have been good to me, 

Because I knew you, and I did not fear 

you. 
Yet, you are all your father. When a babe 
I knew it, for your little fist would smite 
The breast from which it fed in sudden wrath. 
When you were barely weaned, a shepherd 

brought 
A poor, wee, motherless lamb for you to tend ; 
And though you loved it with your hot, 

young heart. 
And hugged it nigh to death; and, day or 

night. 
Would not be parted from it; yet one morn. 
When it shrank from your fierce caress, your 

hands 

In sudden fury clutched its throat, and nigh 
[ 123 ] 



STONEFOLDS 



Had strangled it, ere it was snatched from 

you. 
That day I vowed that you should never wed 
If I might stay you. But I speak too late. 
'Twere as much use to bid the unborn babe 
Beware to breathe the bitter breath of life! 

Hugh. 

It is not yet too late. {Turning to Esther.) 

Lass, you have heard. 
{Going to the door and throwing it open.) 
The door is open; you are free to go. 
Why do you tarry .'^ Are you not afraid? 
Go, ere I hate you. I'll not hinder you. 
I would not have you bound to me by fear. 
Don't fear to leave me; rather fear to bide 
With me who am my father's very son. 

Go, lass, while yet I love you! 

[124 1 



THE BRIDAL 



Esther, closing the door. 

I shall bide. 

I have heard all; and yet, I would not go, 

Nor would I have a single word unsaid. 

I loved you, husband; yet, I did not know you 

Until your mother spoke. I know you now; 

And I am not afraid. 

{Taking off her hat, arid moving towards the 

table.) 

Come, take your seat. 



125 



STONEFOLDS 



THE SCAR 

Persons: 

Abel Forster, a shepherd. 
Margaret Forster, his wife. 

Scene: The Scar, a shepherd's cottage on the 
fells. Abel Forster is seated with his back to 
the open door, gazing with unseeing eyes into 
a smouldering peat-fire, the dull glow from 
which is the only light in the room. The pen- 
dulum of the hanging-clock is silent and mo- 
tionless, and the choral voice of the moorland- 
burn and the intermittent hunting-cry of tlie 
owl are the only sounds that break the frosty 
silence of the night. Presently, a step is heard 
on the threshold, and Margaret Forster enters, 

wrapped in a shawl which covers the bundle 

[126] 



THE SCAR 



she is carrying in her arms. As she sinks 
wearily into a chair by the door, Abel looks up 
at her, uncertainly; then fixes his eyes again 
on the fire, from which he does not raise them 
while speaking. 

Abel. 

So, you are back! 

Margaret. 

Yes, I am back. 

Abel. 

I knew, 

Sooner or later, you would come again. 

I have expected you these many nights. 

But thought to see you sooner, lass. 

Margaret. 

And yet. 

You could not know: I did not know myself; 

And even at the door I almost turned. 

[1271 



STONEFOLDS 



Abel. 

Yet, you are here. 

Margaret. 

Yes, I am here to-night; 
But where the dawn shall find me I don't 
know. 

Abel. 

You would not go again ! Lass, do you think 
My door shall ever stand ajar for you 
To come and go when it may please your 
whim? 

Margaret. 

No; if I go again, I don't come back. 

Abel. 

You shall not go. 

[128] 



THE SCAR 



Margaret. 

Ah! have you not learned aught 
From the long months that taught so much 
to me? 

Abel. 

Ay, lass, I have learned something. Do not 

leave me. 
You, too, have learned, you say; and have 

come home. 
Why go again into the world to starve 
While there is food and shelter for you 

here? 
But you will bide. We shall forget the past. 
Let us forgive each other. . . . 



Margaret. 

I don't come 

To crave forgiveness — nor would I forget. 

[ 1291 



STONEFOLDS 



Abel. 

Why have you come then? Were you hunger- 
driven? 

lass, I hoped . . . 

Margaret. 

No, I don't come to beg; 

Nor would I starve while I have hands to 

work. 

1 lacked nor food nor shelter since I left. 

Abel. 

Then, why have you returned? 

Margaret. 

I have come back 

Because I am the mother of your son. 

(She rises from her seat and throws back her 

shawl f revealing a baby at her breast.) 
i 130 1 



THE SCAR 



Abel, looking up. 

My son! Ah, Margaret! Now I understand. 

To think I didn't know! 

Margaret. 

The boy was born 

A month ago. 

Abel. 

Your babe has brought you home. 

You will not go again. You have come back 

Because you could not quite forget! 

Margaret. 

I've come 

Because the babe is yours. I would not keep 

Your own from you; nor would I rob the child 

Of home and father. 

Abel. 

Had you no other thought? 
[131] 



STONEFOLDS 



Had you forgotten in so brief a while 
How we had loved, lass? 

Margaret. 

We knew naught of love. 

Abel. 

Did we not know love when we wedded? 

Margaret. 

Nay; 

We knew not love. In passion we were wed; 

And passion parted us as easily. 

Abel. 

Ay, passion parted us. Yet, surely, love 

Brings us again together. We were young 

And hasty, maybe, when we wed; but, lass, 

I have awaited these seven weary months 

For your return; and with the sheep by 

day, 

[132] 



THE SCAR 



Or brooding every night beside the hearth, 
I have thought long on many things. The 

months 
Have brought me wisdom; and I love. I 

knew 
You would return; for you, too, have found 

love. 

Margaret. 

Is this your wisdom? Little have you learned. 

You are as hasty as the day we wed ! 

I, too, have brooded long on many things. 

Maybe, my wisdom is no more than yours. 

But only time will tell. Who knows! I've 

lived 

And laboured in the city these long months; 

And though I found friends even there, and 

folk 

[133] 



STONEFOLDS 



Were good to me; and, when the boy was 

born, 
A neighbour tended me — yet, to my heart, 
The city was a soHtude; I Hved 
Alone in all that teeming throng of folk. 
Yet, I was not afraid to be alone; 
Nor, in my loneliness, did I regret 
That we had parted; for the solitude 
Revealed so much that else I had not learned 
Of my own heart to me. But, when, at length 
I knew another life within me stirred. 
My thoughts turned homewards to the hills ; it 

seemed 
So pitiful that a baby should be born 
Amid that stifling squalor. As I watched 
The little children, starved and pinched and 

white. 

Already old in evil ere their time, 

[134 1 



THE SCAR 



Who swarmed in those foul alleys, and who 

played 

In every gutter of the reeking courts, 

I vowed no child of mine should draw its 

breath 

In that dark city, by our waywardness 

Robbed of the air and sun, ay, and the hills. 

And the wide playground of the windy heath: 

And yet, I lingered till the boy was born. 

But, as he nestled at my breast, he drew 

The angry pride from me; and, as I looked 

Upon him I remembered you. He brought 

Me understanding; and his wide, blue eyes 

Told me that he was yours; and, while he 

slept, 

I often lay awake and thought of you; 

And wondered what life held for this wee babe. 

And sometimes in the night . . . 
[135] 



STONEFOLDS 



Abel. 

Have you, too, known 
The long night-watches? Since you went 

away. 
Each morning, as I left the lonely house. 
My heart said: surely she will come to-day; 
And when each evening I returned from toil, 
I looked to meet you on the threshold; yet. 
By night alone within the silent house 
I longed for you the sorest. Through lone 

hours 

My heart has listened for your step, until 

I trembled at the noises of the night. 

I am no craven, yet, the moor-owl's shriek 

At midnight, or the barking of a fox. 

Or even the drumming of the snipe ere dawn 

Has set me quaking. Ay, night long, for you 

The door was left ajar. And, hour by hour, 

[1361 



THE SCAR 



I've listened to the singing of the burn 

Until I had each tinkling note by heart. 

Though I have lived my life among the hills, 

I never listened to a stream before. 

Yet, little comfort all its melody 

Could bring my heart; but now that you are 

back 
It seems to sing you welcome to your home. 
You have come home. You could not quite 

forget. 

Margaret. 

I have forgotten naught; and naught I rue: 
Yet, when the weakness left me, I arose 
To bring your babe to you. 



Abel. 



Naught but the babe? 
[137] 



STONEFOLDS 



Margaret. 

Lad, shut the door; for I am cold; and fetch 
Some peats to mend the fire; it's almost out. 
You need a woman's hand to tend you, lad. 
See, you have let the clock run down! 

Abel. 

My heart 

Kept bitter count of all those lonely hours. 

Margaret, your wisdom is no less than mine; 

And mine is love, lass. 

Margaret. 

Only time will tell. 



[138] 



WINTER DAWN 



WINTER DAWN 

Persons: 

Stephen Reed, a shepherd. 
Elizabeth Reed, Stephen's wife. 
Mary Reed, Stephen's mother. 

Scene: Callersteads, a lonely shepherd's cot- 
tage on the fells. A candle hums on the window- 
sill, though the light of dawn already glimmers 
through the snow-blinded panes. Elizabeth 
Reed paces the sanded floor with impatient 
step. Mary Reed sits crouched on the settle 
over the peat-fire; Elizabeth's baby sleeping in 
a cradle by her side. 

Elizabeth. 

The men are long away. 
[1391 



STONEFOLDS 



Mary. 

Have patience, lass; 
They'll soon be back; they've scarce been 

gone an hour. 
It's toilsome travelling when the drifts are 

deep; 
And William is no longer young. Fear 

naught, 
They'll bring back Stephen with them safe 

and sound. 

Elizabeth. 

You know he could not live through such a 
night. 

Mary. 

Nay, none may know but God. I only know 

That I have heard my father many times 
[1401 



WINTER DAWN 



Tell over and over, as though it were some 

tale 
He'd learned by heart — for he was innocent 
And helpless as a babe for many years 
Before death took him — how, when he was 

young, 
A hundred sheep were buried in the drifts 
Down Devil's Sike, yet not an ewe was lost. 
Though five days passed ere they could be 

dug out; 
And they had cropped the grass beneath 

their feet 
Bare to the roots, and nibbled at their wool 
To stay the pangs of hunger, when, at last. 
The shepherds found them, nearly starved, 

poor beasts. 
If the frost hold, sheep live for many days 

Beneath a drift; the snow lies on them light, 

[1411 



STONEFOLDS 



So they can draw their breath, and keep them 

warm; 
But when the thaw comes it is death to them, 
For they are smothered 'neath the melting 

snow. 
I've heard my father speak these very words 
A thousand times; and I can see him now. 
As, huddled in the ingle o'er the fire. 
With crazy eyes and ever-groping hands. 
He sat all day, and mumbled to himself. 
If silly sheep can keep themselves alive 
So many days and nights, a shepherd lad. 
With all his wits to strive against the storm. 
Would never perish in a day and night; 
And Stephen is a man. . . . 



Elizabeth. 



If Stephen lived, 
f 142 1 



WINTER DAWN 



He would not bide from home a day and 

night; 
He could not lose his way across the fell. 
Unless the snow o'ercame him. 

Mary. 

Yet, maybe, 

He sheltered 'neath a dyke, and fell asleep; 
And William and his man will find him there. 

Elizabeth. 

Ay, they will find him sleeping sure enough, 

But from that slumber who shall waken him.^ 

Mary. 

Nay, lass, you shall not speak so! Stephen 

lives, 

The mother's heart within me tells me this : 

That I shall look upon my son again 

Before an hour has passed. 
[ 143 1 



STONEFOLDS 



Elizabeth. 

A wife's love knows 

Its loss ere it be told ; and in my heart 

I know this night has taken him from me. 

My husband's eyes shall never look again 

In mine, nor his lips ever call me wife. 

You cannot love him as I love him. . . . 

Mary. 

Lass! 

Elizabeth. 

Because he is your son, you love him, woman; 

But I, for love of him, became his bride. 

Mary. 

Lass, don't speak so. Your son cries out to 

you. 

Take him within your arms, and comfort him 

Until his father comes. 

[144] 



WINTER DAWN 



Elizabeth. 

Poor babe, poor babe! 

Your father nevermore will look on you, 
And hug you to his breast, and call you his. 
Nay! shut your eyes! 

(To Mary.) O woman, take the boy! 
I cannot bear to look into those eyes 
So like his father's! Hark! did you hear 
aught .'^ 

Mary. 

Someone is on the threshold. See who comes. 

Elizabeth. 

No! No! I dare not. Give me back the child, 

And open you the door. Quick, woman, 

quick ! 
Surely strange fingers fumble at the latch! 

{As she speaksy the door slowly opens, and 
[145] 



STONEFOLDS 



Stephen enters wearily, with faltering step, 
and groping like a blind man. Elizabeth runs 
to meet him, but he passes her unseeing, and 
walks towards the hearth.) 

Elizabeth. 

Stephen! (Shrinking as he passes her.) It 
is not he! 

Mary. 

My son! My son! 

Stephen, speaking slowly and wearily. 

Ay, mother, are you there? I cannot see you. 

Why have you Ht no candle? Fetch a Hght. 

This darkness hurts my eyes. I scarce could 

find 

The track across the fell. Did you forget 

To set the candle on the window-sill? 

Or maybe 'twas the snow that hid the flame, 
f 146 1 



WINTER DAWN 



The master kept me late, because my task 
Was but half-done; and, when I left the school, 
The snow was deep, and blew into my eyes. 
Pricking them like hot needles. I was tired, 
And hardly could win home, it was so dark; 
Yet, that strange darkness burned mine eyes 

like fire. 
And dazzled them like flame, and still they 

burn. 
But why do you sit lightless? Fetch a light, 
That I may see. It must be very late. 
I seemed to wander through an endless night; 
And I am weary and would go to bed. 

Mary. 

Son, sit you down. The snow has blinded you. 

You will see better soon. 

{Handing him a pot from the hob.) 
[147] 



STONEFOLDS 



Come, drink this ale; 
It's hot, and will put life in your cold limbs. 
Your supper awaits you; you are very late. 
(To Elizabeth.) 
Lass, speak a word to him! 

Elizabeth. 

It is not he! 
Mary. 

Ay, lass, it's he. The snow's bewildered him; 
He dreams he is a little lad again. 
But speak you to him; he will know your 

voice. 
Your word may call his wits again to him. 

Elizabeth. 

No! No! The night has taken him from me. 

This is not he who went out yesterday. 

My kiss upon his lips, to seek the sheep, 

[1481 



WINTER DAWN 



And bring them into shelter from the storm. 
My husband's eyes shall never look in mine 
Again, nor his lips ever call me wife. 
This is not he! 

Stephen. 

Why do you bring no light? 

The darkness hurts my eyes. Do you not 

heed? 

I never knew such darkness. It is strange, 

I feel the glow, yet cannot see the peats. 

Mary. 

Lass, speak a word! 

Elizabeth. 

Stephen ! . . . He doesn't hear me. 

Stephen. 

Whom do you speak with, mother? Is father 

back 

[149] 



STONEFOLDS 



Already from the mart? But I forget — 
It must be late; 'twas dark ere I left school — 
So strangely dark; it scorched my eyes like 
fire. 

Mary. 

Son, don't you know Elizabeth? 

Stephen. 

The lass 

With big, brown eyes who sits by me at school? 

Ay, ay, I know her well; but what of her? 

Mary. 

Do you not know Elizabeth, your wife? 

Stephen. 

Mother, I am too weary for your jest; 

And my eyes hurt me. I would go to sleep. 

Light me to bed. Why do you bring no light? 

f 150 1 



WINTER DAWN 



Mary. 

Ah, God, that he had slept to wake no more! 

Elizabeth. 

What say you, woman? Have you not your 

son? 
It's I have lost my husband, and my babe 
Is fatherless. 

Mary. 

No, he may know the babe! 

You take the boy and lay him in his lap. 

Maybe his child will bring him to himself. 

Son, do you not remember your poor babe? 

Stephen. 

My baby brother, Philip? But he died 

So long ago; what makes you speak of him? 

Yes, I remember well the day he died. 

And how the snow fell when they buried him. 

fl511 



STONEFOLDS 



The mare could scarce make headway through 

the drifts. 
And plunged and stumbled, and the cart sank 

oft 
Over the axle-tree; and when, at last. 
We reached the church, the storm closed in 

again. 
And happed the little coffin in white flakes, 
Ere they had laid it in the grave. To-night 
'Twas such a storm. I must have lost my 

way, 
The night has seemed so long, and I am 

tired. 
Mother, a light ! The darkness hurts my eyes. 
You do not heed. 

Mary. 

At least you know me, son! 

God give you light, ay! even though it blind 
[152 1 



WINTER DAWN 



Your eyes to me for ever, so that you 
May know your wife and child! 

Elizabeth. 

My little babe! 

He has forgotten us and does not love us. 

The cruel night has taken him from us. 

Don't cry, my son. He'll pay no heed to 

you. 

Last night your father and my husband died. 

Stephen. 

I am so weary, mother. Bring a light. 

Mary. 

Son, take my hand. I'll lead you to your 

bed. 

Maybe, a healing sleep will make you whole, 

And bring your wandering spirit home again. 
[1531 



STONEFOLDS 



Elizabeth. 

No, no! It's I must lead him! He is mine. 

The night has taken my husband, but the 

dawn 
Has brought him back, a helpless child, to 

me. 
He fumbles in the darkness; yet, my love 
Shall be a light to lead him to the end. 
Come, Stephen, take my hand. 

Stephen. 

Elizabeth! 

What are you doing from home on such a 

night.'' 
You have a gentle touch; I'll come with you. 
It seems the snow has blinded me; but you 
Will lead me safely through this dazzling 

dark. 

Come, lass, for I am weary, and would sleep. 
[154] 



WINTER DAWN 



Mary, as Elizabeth and Stephen pass out of 

the room. 

Ay, you must lead him to the end. Though 

sleep 
May heal his sight, it cannot heal his mind. 
Or lift the deeper darkness from his soul. 
My poor, old father lives again in him; 
And he, my son, so young and hale, must 

tread 
The twilight road to death. Ah God! Ah 

God! 
Through me the curse has fallen on my son! 
Yet, when the madness on my father fell. 
He was a frail, old man, and nigher death; 
And Stephen is so young and full of life. 
Nay! Surely, it's the storm has stricken 

him! 

Elizabeth, your poor heart spoke too true: 

[155 1 



STONEFOLDS 



The bitter night has widowed you, your 
babe 

Is fatherless, and you must lead my son 

Through the bewildering dark. But yes- 
terday 

It seems I guided his first baby steps! 

Ay, you must lead him; you are young and 
strong. 

And I am old and feeble, and my hand 

Would fail him ere he reached the journey's 
end. 

{The baby cries ouij and Mary takes him in 
her arms.) 

Poor babe, poor babe! A bleak dawn breaks 
for you! 

{A sound of footsteps on the threshold.) 

The seekers are returning. William comes; 

And I must tell him that his son is home. 



156] 



THE FERRY 



THE FERRY 

Persons: 

John Todd, an old ferryman. 
Robert Todd, his son. 
Jane Todd, Robert's wife. 

Scene: The living room of the ferry-house— 
a door opening on to the river-hank, another 
to the inner room. It is evening in early spring, 
and the ceaseless roar of the river in flood 
sounds through the room. John, seated at a 
cobblers bench, works by candle-light. Jane, 
coming from the inner room, takes a chair to 
the fireside, and sits down with her knitting. 
The outer door opens, and Robert enters, 

Robert. 

The river's in full-spate. 
[157] 



STONEFOLDS 



Jane. 

Ay, how it roars! 

John, looking up from his ivork. 
The snow has melted on the fells. 

Jane. 

That wind 

Will puff the candle out. Lad, shut the door. 

John. 

It's fresh, and smells of spring. 'Twas such 
a night. . . 

Robert. 

Wife, I'll away down to the Traveller's Rest. 

Jane. 

Well, don't be late. 

John. 

But what about the boat.^^ 

[158] 



THE FERRY 



Robert. 

The boat is safe enough; I've made her fast. 

John. 

Ay, lad, but what if anyone should hail, 
And you not here to answer to their call? 
I cannot take the oars; you know that well. 

Robert. 

The devil himself could never cross to-night; 

The water is too big. {Goes out.) 

John. 

'Twas such a night 

That Margaret hailed, and did not hail in 

vain. 

I did not fear the flood. 

Jane. 

You cannot hear 
[159] 



STONEFOLDS 



How loud it roars. Your ears are dull with 

age. 
You could not cross to-night. 

John. 

If Margaret called, 

Old as I am, I'd take the oars my hands 

Have touched not these long years. If 

Margaret called — 
But she will call no more. {Bends over his 

work,) 

Jane. 

You could not cross. 

John. 

I would that Robert had not gone to-night. 

Jane. 

Why, he's a steady lad; there's little harm. 
[160] 



THE FERRY 



John. 

Ay, lass; and yet, I wish he had not gone. 

If anyone should hail, and he not here! 

Jane. 

No one will hail to-night. 

John. 

'Twas such a night 

That Margaret hailed. 

Jane. 

'Twas cruel madness then. 

John. 

She knew that I would come. 

Jane. 

More shame to her 

That she should call you to nigh-certain 

death! 

[161] 



STONEFOLDS 



John. 

How can you speak of Robert's mother so! 

She knew my arm was strong. She came that 

night 
Home from the city, after many years. 
She stood upon the bank and called my name. 
And I, above the roar of waters, heard, 
And took the oars and crossed to her, though 

twice 
The river caught me in its swirl, and strove 
To sweep me to the dam. But I was strong, 
And reached the other bank; and in she 

stepped. 
And never seemed to think of fear. Her eyes 
Were on me, and I rowed her home, though 

death 
Clutched at the boat, and sought to drag us 

down; 

[1621 



THE FERRY 



For I was young and strong. That May we 

wed; 
And by the next spring-floods the boy was 

born, 
And she lay dead — and I, so young and 

strong! 
My strength that brought her through the 

roaring spate 
Could not hold back that silent-ebbing life. 
(Bends over his work.) 

Jane. 

Yes, I have heard the story many times. 
{Silence falls on the room save for the roar of the 
river. After a while, John lifts his head as 
though listening.) 



John. 

Hark! What is that? 

[163] 



STONEFOLDS 



Jane. 

It's nothing but the flood. 

John, still listening. 
She calls! 

Jane. 

Who calls? 

John. 

Do you hear naught.'* 

Jane. 

Nay, naught. 

There's naught to hear — only the river's roar. 
(John bends again over his work, and is silent 
for a while; but often lifts his head as though 
listening. At last he speaks.) 

John. 

Can you hear naught, lass? Someone hails 

the boat. 

[164] 



THE FERRY 



Jane. 

It's but your fancy. How could you hear aught 
With your deaf ears, when I can scarcely catch 
My needles' click — the river roars so loud ! 

John. 

I heard a voice. 

Jane. 

I tell you it was naught. 

No voice could cross that flood. If any called, 
That roar would drown their cry. You could 

not hear. 
But no one would be fool enough to call 
On such a night as this. 

John. 

I heard a voice. 

I would that Robert had not gone to- 
night. . . . 

f 165 1 



STONEFOLDS 



Jane. 

What could he do if he were here? 

John. 

I crossed 
On such a night. 

Jane. 

Ay, ay, but Robert's wed. 

John, starting up. 

Hark, hark, she calls ! I hear the voice again. 

Jane, rising and laying a hand on his arm. 

Kay, father! Sit thee down. There's no one 

calls. 

Your memory tricks you. It's the river's roar 

That rings in your old head, and mazes you. 

(John sits down again at his bench.) 

It sounds as though it sought to drag the banks 
[166] 



THE FERRY 



Along with it — and all! You'd almost think 

That it was round the house! 

{Goes to the door and opens it and looks out.) 

How fierce and black 

Among the rocks it threshes 'neath the moon ! 

It makes me shudder though we're high and 

dry. 

(Closes the door.) 

John. 

Did you see no one on the other bank.'^ 

Jane. 

No one was there to see. Who should there 
he? 

(John bends again over his work; then stops, and 
sits gazing into the fire, still listening.) 

John, rising and speaking slowly. 

Lass, someone hails the boat; and I must go, 

For Robert is not here. 

[167] 



STONEFOLDS 



Jane, rising too^ and holding him by the arm 
as he turns towards the door. 

You go! You go! 
What would you do, you poor, old crazy 

man? 
'Twould break you like a straw! 

John. 

Yes, I am old; 
But Robert is not here. 

Jane. 

If he were here 

He could do naught. The flood would crush 

the boat 

Like any eggshell ! 

John. 

Robert should be here. 

Hark, hark, the voice again ! Lass, I must go. 

{He tries to move towards the door, but Jane 

f 168 1 



THE FERRY 



takes him by the arms and forces him back into 
his seat.) 

Jane. 

You crazed, old man! Sit down. What 

would you do? 
You need not hurry to your death; fear not, 
'Twill come ere you are ready! Sit you 

down. 
You're feeble in my hands as any babe. 
What could you do against that raging flood .'^ 

John. 

Yes, I am weak, who once was young and 

strong. 
But Robert should be here. 

Jane. 

I'll fetch him home. 
[169] 



STONEFOLDS 



If you'll sit quiet till I come again. 

{John gazes silently into the fire, then closes 

his eyes as if asleep.) 

Jane. 

He's quiet now; the silly fit has passed. 

Yet, I will go for Robert. It were best 

That he should come. I think I should go 

crazed 

Betwixt the flood and his fond, doting talk. 

I fear I don't know what. It's that old man 

Has filled me with his fancies; but he sleeps 

Sound as a babe. I'll go for Robert now. 

And be back ere he wakes. 

{Throws a shawl over her head, and goes out 

softly, closing the door behind her. John sits for 

a while with his eyes still shut; then starts up 

suddenly, and stands listening.) 
[170] 



THE FERRY 

John. 

She calls ! She calls ! 

{Moves to the door and throws it open.) 
I come! I come! 

(Shading his eyes with his hand and gazing 
into the night.) She awaits me on the 

bank, 
Beyond the raging waters, in the light. 
Margaret, I come! 

(He goes out, leaving the door open. The 
clank of a chain being unloosed is heard; then 
nothing save the thresh of the river. Some 
moments pass; then voices are heard on the 
threshold.) 

Robert, outside. 

The door is open, lass. 

You should not leave it so. 
[171] 



STONEFOLDS 



Jane, entering, 

I shut it close. 

Father! He is not here! He's gone! 

Robert. 

Gone where? 

Jane. 

Robert, the boat! the boat! {They rush out 
together.) 

Robert, his voice heard above the roar of the 

waters. 

The boat's gone too ! 
Quick, to the dam! 

Jane, as they pass the door. 

He seemed to sleep so sound. 
(The candle gutters out in the draught from the 
open door, and nothing is heard but the noise 

of the waters.) 

[1721 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



ON THE THRESHOLD 

Persons: 

Philip Ridley, a young shepherd. 
Alice Ridley, his bride. 
Ellen Hall, an elderly woman. 

Scene: Cragshields, a cottage on the fells. 
Through a little window to one side of the hearth 
a far-off lough is seen, glittering in the April 
sunshine. Now and again, the call of the 
curlew is heard. Philip Ridley and his wife 
are seated at breakfast near the open door. 

Alice. 

No more of love, lad! We are wedded folk 

With work to do, and little time enough 

To earn our bread in; and must put away 

Such lovers' folly. 

[173] 



STONEFOLDS 



Philip. 

Can you say so, lass, 

Hearing the curlew pipe down every slack! 

Their mating-call runs rippling through my 

blood. 
Hark, do you hear how shrill and sweet it is! 
Does it stir naught in you? You have no 

heart 
If that can leave you cold which thrills me 

through 
Till every vein's a-tingle. 

Alice. 

Shut the door, 

And sup your porridge ere it cools. You 

know 
Even the curlew cannot live on love. 
He's a wise bird, and soon will sober down. 

He courts but in due season, and his voice 

[1741 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



Keeps not the wooing note the whole year 

long. 
So must we settle down, lad. Do you think 
Old William Hall and his goodwife who 

dwelt, 
For sixty years, together in this house. 
Before our coming, as the neighbours tell. 
Lived like young lovers through so many 

years .f* 

Philip. 

But we've not mated, lass, as curlew mate; 
Our love shall know no season. I have heard 
That William and his wife were hard and 

cold, 
And seldom spoke save with a bitter tongue. 

Alice. 

And yet, they dwelt beneath this very roof 

[175 1 



STONEFOLDS 



Together sixty years — as we may dwell! 
They must have wed as young as we, and 

come 
Home to this hearth as full of foolish hope. 
I shudder when I think of those long years. 

Philip. 

Don't think of them, for they are naught to 
you. 

Alice. 

Had they no children, then? 

Philip. 

But one, a lass; 

And she was led astray. They cast her out, 

And barred the door upon her one wild night; 

And what became of her none ever knew. 

The neighbours ne'er heard tell of her again. 

[176] 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



Alice. 

I wonder if she lives, poor soul ! And yet, 

I'd bar the door on any child of mine. . . . 

Philip. 

You wouldn't, Alice. You don't know your 

heart. 
We'll speak no more of them. The past is 

past. 
And throws no shadow on our lives; no ghost 
Of old unhappiness shall haunt our home. 
The years hold no such bitterness for us; 
And naught shall come between us and our 

love. 

Alice. 

Now you are at your foolish talk! It's time 

That you were with the sheep. If you have 

naught 

11771 



STONEFOLDS 



To turn your hand to, I have more to do 
Than may be done ere bedtime. Shift your 

seat 
Till I have cleared the table, lad. 

Philip. 

No, lass, 

I must away; but, ere I go, one kiss 

To keep my heart up through the morning! 

Alice. 

Go, 
You foolish lad! You're still a boy. 

Philip. 

Time mends 

The folly that is youth — if it be folly 

To live and love in happiness and hope; 

For we are young but once; and, as you say, 

We have full sixty years in which to grow 

[ 178 1 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



Wise, cold and crabbed, if we should live as 

long 
As William and his wife. 

{To his collie.) Down, Nelly, down! 
I will be back ere noonday. 

{Goes outy closing the door behind him.) 

Alice. 

Sixty years ! 

It's a long while to dwell in bitterness. 

I wonder if they ever loved as we 

When they were young. Maybe they did, 

until 
Their daughter's trouble soured their hearts 

— and yet, 
Surely, if they had loved! . . . Ah, well, 

the years 
Must bring what they will bring, and we abide 

The winter, though it freeze the springs of love. 

f 1791 



STONEFOLDS 



(She turns to her work of scrubbing and sweep- 
ing. After a while, the door opens noiselessly; 
and Ellen Hall stands on the threshold, unseen 
to Alice who is bending over the hearth.) 

Ellen, gazing about her absently. 
The dresser stood against the other wall. 
(Seeing Alice, who looks up suddenly in amaze- 
ment.) 

Forgive me that I did not knock. So long 
I raised this latch a dozen times a day, 
Undreaming that the hour would ever 

come 
When I should need to knock, that, when, 

once more, 

I stood upon the threshold, I forgot 

The years that stood between me and my 

home, 

[180] 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



And that I came a stranger to this house. 
Forgive me. . . . 

Alice. 

Nay, come in, and take a seat. 
We are newcomers to these parts. . . . 

Ellen. 

Had you 

Been born and bred within a mile or so. 

You would not know me, lass; for you are 

young; 
And it is forty years since I left home. 
But you shall know me ere I take a seat 
Beneath your roof. If you will ask me 

then. . . . 
You start at that! I see that you have heard 
My tale already. I am Ellen Hall, 

The outcast whom the neighbours told you of. 

[181] 



STONEFOLDS 



But I must go. Forgive me that I brought 
My shadow in your house. I meant no harm. 
I only wished to see my home once more. 

Alice. 

Nay, nay, come in, and rest; for you are tired. 
You must not go with neither bite nor sup. 
I'll set the kettle on the bar. . . . 

Ellen. 

Nay, lass, 

I will not eat nor drink, but I would rest 
A little while, for my old feet have found 
The fell-road long and heavy, though my heart 
Grew young again, breathing the upland air. 
Let me not hinder you: just do your work 
As though I were not here. I'll not bide long. 
{After a pause.) 

Lass, do you love your man? 

[1821 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



Alice. 

I wedded him. 

Ellen. 

Though your reproof be bitter, it is just; 

But I have Hved so long on bitter words 

That I, long since, have lost the taste of them. 

I did not speak the word in wantonness; 

For as I look upon you where you stand 

In your fresh bloom of youth, old memories 

stir 
Within me; for your eyes are kind. My heart 
That has not spoken out so many years 
A moment longed to tell its tale to you, 
The tale it never told to any heart; 
But it shall keep its silence to the end. 
For you are proud and happy in your youth, 
As I was proud and happy once. Ay, lass. 

Even I was young and comely in my time — 

f 183 1 



STONEFOLDS 



Though you may smile to hear it now, as then 
I should have smiled. . . . Nay, lass, I do 

not blame you! 
Forgive a lonely woman, frail and old. 
Whom years and grief have brought to foolish- 
ness. 

Alice. 

Nay, nay, I didn't smile. I'd hear your tale 

If you would tell it me. 'Twill ease your 

heart 
To pour its sorrow in another's ear. 
But if you would keep silence, breathe no 

word. 
Yet, bide till you are rested. 

Ellen. 

Thank you, lass. 

A silence that has lasted forty years 

[184 1 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



May not be broken in a breathing space. 
It isn't easy, speaking; yet, I'll speak 
Because your eyes are kind, and nevermore 
Shall look upon me when the tale is told. 
I haven't much to tell, for you have heard 
The neighbours' talk; and yet, lass, none may 

know 
The heart's true story save the heart itself; 
And they who speak, not knowing the full 

truth, 

May twist on idle tongues unwittingly 

What little of the truth is theirs. You know 

It was my sin, as folk account it sin, 

To love beyond my station — ay, to love 

Unquestioning, undoubting, unafraid — 

To love with the fierce faith and simple might 

And courage of a young girl's innocence. 

In sweet, blind trustfulness and happy pride, 
[185] 



STONEFOLDS 



As many a maid has loved, nor lived to rue. 
Yet, I don't blame him: he was passion's 

fool- 
Ay, one of those from whom hard fate with- 
holds 
The wonder and the tenderness of love — 
Though I believed he loved me as I loved, 
And as I love him yet — ay, even yet! 
Blindly I loved him — blinded by the light 
Of my own love, my love that still. . . But 

you. 
Unless you love, you will not understand; 
For only love brings knowledge. You have 

heard 
How, when he left me, I was turned from 

home. 
Abandoned in my trouble, I was thrust 

On the cold mercy of a winter night. 
[186] 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



This very door was barred against my woe — 
I still can hear that bolt shot after me — 
Although I never turned. Nay, speak no 

word ! 
I crave no pity; for I loved, and love 
Brooks no compassion from a happier heart. 
And I remember little of that night; 
It scarcely seemed to matter when so much 
Was gone from me that all should go. To me 
My parents had ever been shrewd and harsh 
As to each other. They had never known 
The tenderness of love; for they had wed 
In wanton passion which had left them cold. 
To live for sixty years on bitter words, 
For they were over eighty when both died. 
As though they had been lovers, on one 

day. 

Spare all the fresh young pity of your heart 

[1871 



STONEFOLDS 



For those whom chance has tethered with- 
out love 
To tread together the same patch of Hfe 
Till death release them. 

Alice. 

Did you ne'er return? 

Ellen. 

Love's outcasts don't come back. 

Alice. 

Might not the years 

Have softened their hard hearts.^ They would 

relent. . . 

Ellen. 

Time brings no understanding without love; 
Love cannot spring from barrenness; the soil 
That does not quicken to the breath of spring 

Will bear no blade of green in winter days. 

f 1881 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



I pitied them; and, had my child but lived, 
I had forgiven them with all my heart. 

Alice. 

Ah ! they were cruel ! but you, what could you 
do? 

Ellen. 

I lived — but not as idle tongues have lied. 
I loved him, lass; and if your heart is true 
To love, 'twill know that I speak truly. Yet, 
What can the happy know of love! O lass. 
You are too fresh and fair to have known 
love! 

Alice. 

Yet, I love Philip. 

Ellen. 

Nay, you cannot love! 

[189] 



STONEFOLDS 



They don't know love who have not starved 

for love, 
And worked their fingers to the bone for 

love. 
And lived for love, without love's recom- 
pense. 
Death holding within easy reach the while 
The escape and solace of forgetfulness. 
Still, you may love — for, even unto me, 
Love once was happiness. Forgive me, lass; 
It is so long since I knew happiness. 
You have not idle hands; but then you 

toil 
For him you love and who loves you again, 
While I have laboured only for my love 
Of him who never loved me, unto whom 
I was a broken trinket, cast aside, 

Forgotten, for he wedded years ago. 

\ 190 1 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



Forgive me, if I weary you; so long 

My heart has brooded in its solitude 

On all these things, oft shaping them to 

words 
For its own comfort — for even words give 

ease 
To aching and intolerable thought — 
Although it could not utter them aloud. 
That, now they find a vent, they teem, a 

spate 
Enough to drown your patience. 

Alice. 

Nay, speak on. 
Ellen. 

I have dwelt long in grey and narrow streets, 

A stranger among strangers, where men 

snatch 

A starveling living from each other's clutch; 
[1911 



STONEFOLDS 



Ay, I have toiled in cities where men grind 
Their brothers' bones for bread, where Hfe 

is naught 
But labour and starvation to the end. 
Lass, may your kind eyes never need to grow. 
As mine have grown, accustomed to the sight 
Of the evil and the wretchedness and want 
That huddle in dark alleys; yet even there 
Love shines, though cooped in stifling misery, 
A candle in a garret. To the poor, 
Life is not easy underneath the sun. 
But in the dark and reeking city ways 
It's more relentless, grim and terrible — 
The endless struggle. Lass, I never thought 
To look upon the hills of home again, 
Or tread the ling, or breathe the living air 
That I had breathed, a heedless child; but 

when 

[192] 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



By chance I heard my parents both were gone 
To where the shadow of a daughter's shame 
Might never vex their slumber, my heart 

yearned 
To gaze once more o'er the famihar fells 
Where I had first found love. So I set out. 
Hoping to come and go ere the new herd 
Should take possession. As I crossed the 

crags, 
I saw the smoke curl o'er the chimney-stack, 
And knew I came too late. 

Alice. 

Nay, not too late! 

You have not come too late! 

Ellen. 

I nigh turned back. 

I had not meant to cross the threshold-stone; 
[193] 



STONEFOLDS 



But as I climbed the brae-top, and looked 

forth 
Over the sweep of bent and heath, and 

breathed 
The morning air, and gazed upon the loughs 
A-shimmer in the sun, and heard the call 
Of curlew down the slacks, and felt the spring 
Of heather under-foot, I — who had thought 
So little of these things when I had lived, 
A careless lass, among them, but had come 
To hanker after them in city streets — 
Was filled with strange forgetfulness, and 

moved 
As in a trance, scarce knowing what I did. 
Till I had raised the latch, and saw your 

eyes 
In wonder fixed on mine. But I must go 



Before your man comes in. 
f 194 1 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



Alice. 

No, you must bide. 
This is your home. You must not go again 
Back to the city. You are old and weak; 
And I and Philip are both young and strong 
To work for you, if you will live with us. 

Ellen. 

With all my heart I thank you, lass, and yet, 

I may not bide. Though I am old and weak, 

I would tread out my pathway to the end. 

It is too late, too late to turn aside; 

Nor would I if I could, since I have fared 

So far along the solitary way. 

I could not rest at ease in idleness. 

Yet, I shall go to take up work again 

With kindlier memories of my home, and 

when 

[ 195 ] 



STONEFOLDS 



Once more the narrow alleys on me close, 
I shall remember someone living here 
Whom love has given understanding. Life 
Be good to you — ^yes, I can wish you 

this, 
Though you have all that life withheld from 

me. 
I don't know what the future holds, and 

yet, 

Whatever may befall you, this is sure: 

You shall not know the utmost bitterness; 

Life cannot be all barren, having love. 

From the full knowledge of my heart I speak 

As one who through the perilous night has 

come 

To you, upon the threshold of your day. 

The dawnlight on your brow. Lass, fare 

you well! 

[1961 



ON THE THRESHOLD 



Alice. 

Farewell! and yet, I grieve that you should 

go 
Back to the struggle who have brought to 

me 
The secret you have wrung from life. 

{Kissing her.) Farewell! 
You have revealed to me my happiness. 

Ellen. 

Your kiss brings comfort, daughter. Fare 

you well ! 
(She goes out, and Alice stands in the doorway, 
gazing after her for a while. Presently a gate 
clashes hard by, and Philip approaches.) 

Philip. 

What do you look on, lass — so rare a light 

[1971 



STONEFOLDS 



Burns in your deep, brown eyes! What do 

you see? 
Have you been listening to the curlew's call? 

Alice. 

No: I have heard a voice from out the past; 
And my eyes look down all the happy years 
That you and I must travel, side by side. 

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poetry circles that followed the appearance of Mr. 
Masters's Spoon River Anthology. Comparatively un- 
known prior to its publication, Mr. Masters was soon 
the most discussed writer in America and his volume 
was called by many critics, W. S. Braithwaite among 
others, the most important contribution to letters of 
1915. This has stimulated interest in his new collec- 
tion, in which will be found exhibited again those 
qualities of imagination, of originality, of humor, which 
brought success to its predecessor. 

The Great Maze-™The Heart of 

Youth : A Poem and a Play 
By Herman Hagedorn, Author of "Poems and Bal- 
lads," "Faces in the Dawn," etc. 

Cloth, i2mo. 
In this book are contained two remarkable pieces 
of work which show conclusively Mr. Hagedorn's 
ability in distinctly different fields. The Great Maze 
is a long poem concerned with the murder of Agamem- 
non by iEgisthus and the events leading up to this 
catastrophe. It is finely conceived and Clytemnestra's 
gradual revolt against ^gisthus and her sudden sur- 
render to the love of her husband put new and whole- 
some life into a tale that is dramatic of itself. The 
Heart of Youth, on the other hand, is a play presenting 
a picture of youth with all its buoyancy, and love of 
freedom, and exhibiting to the full the author's power 
of expression and imagination. 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue New York 



Six French Poets 

By amy LOWELL 

Author of " Sword Blades and Poppy Seed," " A Dome of Many- 
Coloured Glass," etc. 

Clotk, 8vo, %2.5o 

A brilliant series of biographical and critical essays dealing 
with Emile Verhaeren, Albert Samain, Remy de Gourmont, 
Henri de Regnier, Francis Jammes, and Paul Fort, by one of the 
foremost living American poets. 

The translations make up an important part of the book, and 
together with the French originals constitute a representative 
anthology of the poetry of the period. 

Professor Barrett Wendell, of Harvard University, says : 

" Seems to me as unusual — in the happiest sense of the word, 
... I find the book a model, in total effect, of what a work 
with such purpose ought to be." 

William Lyon Phelps, Professor of Engrlish Literature, Yale University, says : 

"This is, I think, the most valuable work on contemporary 
French literature that I have seen for a long time. It is written 
by one who has a thorough knowledge of the subject and who is 
herself an American poet of distinction. She has the knowl- 
edge, the sympathy, the penetration, and the insight — all neces- 
sary to make a notable book of criticism. It is a work that 
should be widely read in America." 

OTHER BOOKS BY AMY LOWELL 

Sword Blades and Poppy Seed 

Boards, i2mo, $1.25 

" From the standard of pure poetry, Miss Lowell's poem, ' The 

Book of the Hours of Sister Clotilde,' is one of the loveliest in 

our poetry, worthy of companionship to the great romantic 

lyrics of Coleridge." — Boston Transcript. 

A Dome of Many-Coloured Glass 

Boards, i2mo, $7.25 
" Such verse as this is delightful, has a sort of personal flavor, 
a loyalty to the fundamentals of life and nationality. . , . The 
child poems are particularly graceful." — Boston Transcript. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenue Nev York 



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